The Phantom Mastermind Mystery
by Cmdr's Monkey
Summary: AU FINAL. Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty have a conversation over Reichenbach Falls in which Moriarty reveals something that Holmes was completely unaware of and probably wishes he never found out about. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_This idea was inspired by another's story here on FF.n and although I've had this idea for years, it is only now that I've actually found the inspiration to spin the tale into words to make it believable. I hope you enjoy it and find it just as plausible as I have. And yes the title is a twist off of __The Phantom Menance__ I couldn't resist. :D_

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**The Phantom Mastermind Mystery**

_"If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near." - Sun Tzu_

**4****th****, May 1891 – Reichenbach Falls, Switzerland**

The roar of the falls as they poured over the cliff side and crashed down into the watery chasm bellow was deafening to the ear. The spray of water misted up over the edge of the path in which I stood upon, dampening the dirt beneath my feet into a soft mud and giving everything else a light sheen of misty dew while I waited at a moss covered rock for my opponent to make his approach for our final confrontation. Moments before, my friend and chronicler had received a message from a boy about a woman in need of a doctor and thus he had left me alone above the lower falls of Reichenbach to return to the village and see what he could do. I knew the message had been false but still I encouraged my friend away in the hopes to protect him should I fail to dispatch the gentleman who had sent the deception. Though I wish now more than ever that he had stayed at my side. It would have made enduring the conversation to come all the more bearable for me.

My attention was brought away from a fleeting bird darting in and out of a nearby tree across the falls and no doubt making all sorts of a ruckus at whatever it was that had agitated it, to the sound of approaching footsteps crunching against the naturally graveled path as the gentleman that was the object of our attentions for the last week, and for me the last several months, finally made his appearance on the world stage once more. He had not changed since I had last scene him days ago in my flat on Baker Street, his head still oscillated back and forth like some sinister reptile and his shoulders still bowed over from too much study when in actuality it was just another symptom of the disease that was ailing him.

Watson had dampened my mood on my triumph over this man when he explained to me that my opponent, based on my description of him alone, was suffering from Shaky Palsy[1], a neurological disorder that not only affected the body's motor functions, but a man's speech pattern and mental faculties as well. It would explain why Moriarty had slipped after so many years of being anonymous and careful in his schemes.

His mind was leaving him.

I wondered if he realized this and whether it affected his decision to face his destroyer rather than flee to the continent and rebuild his criminal empire once everything had quieted down. If it had, I could so see no other outcome from this encounter other than one of us, if not both, dying. The thought of losing ones mental faculties was a frightening thought, a fear even I considered every now and then. I could only imagine what fear he felt when he was told of his terminal illness.

I did not pity him though. In a way it was Nature's way of bringing justice to a man who has brought nothing but pain and misery to every soul he indirectly manipulated and controlled. It was also Nature's way in stopping such an individual, albeit it was a slow process. If I had not discovered the pattern in several crimes committed in London and along the countryside, I was confident that his own men would have eventually seen to his downfall once his weakness became apparent to them. That was the downside to being a crime king in the criminal world. The wolves that served him would eventually have turned against him.

The good professor stopped short of me and met my gaze with his own equally determined one. He looked nothing like a criminal that one would expect from such a creature. If I had not known any better, I would have thought him nothing more than a gentleman with a sinister temperament such was his appearance with a travelers attire and a walking cane. He looked nothing more like another English tourist come to visit the infamous falls that served as a backdrop to our meeting.

"So it has finally come to this," said he as he tucked his cane under his arm and carefully removed his gloves and then proceeded to stuff them into a pocket on his dark coat before covering the last of the distance between us. I stood from my perch on the rock and warily kept my distance. If he took my behavior as an affront, he did not show it. Instead, he merely took my place and leaned against the boulder and studied me.

"It was inevitable," said I, reaching into my own coat to retrieve my silver cigarette case. He gestured to it with his right hand and I noticed a slight tremble in the appendage before I held out the case to him to partake a cigarette for himself. It was ironic how two men of opposing sides continued to behave like gentlemen out for a leisurely stroll and conversation rather than two enemies intent on killing the other. I lit his cigarette for him before doing the same to my own and we allowed the silence to continue between us while we enjoyed the vice for but a few moments.

"You still stand fast?" he finally asked after another minute had passed.

I nodded minutely in reply.

The criminal mastermind sighed softly, almost regretfully before taking a final drag on the cigarette and snuffing it out against the rock. "It is a shame then. My superior had hoped you would see reason and desist with your persecution of his affairs. He really does not wish harm to befall you, but knows it will be a necessity if he wishes to keep his own liberty as well as my own."

I must have worn my confusion on my face for he began to smile knowingly to a child who had thought he knew everything but really knew absolutely nothing. "Superior?" I stammered a few moments after collecting my wits and composure from the surprise. All the evidence I had pursued and gathered had pointed to him as being the leader of the criminal organization I and Patterson had been fighting for the last several months. How could it even be possible that Moriarty answered to someone above him when there was no indication that there was someone else higher? It was unfeasible.

Impossible even.

He chuckled slightly at watching me try and puzzle over this new information. "Did you really believe that a mere professor of mathematics could control and manipulate an organization of the size that which you have so well disassembled?"

"Considering that the evidence leads only to you," said I, "Yes."

"Yes. I suppose you would come to that conclusion based on what he allowed you to find." My opponent shifted against the boulder before reaching into his coat for something. I stiffened at his actions and was ready to spring upon him should he produce a revolver. He only chuckled at my reaction to his movements and I relaxed somewhat once the object of question was revealed to be nothing more than his notebook and briefly I wondered if there was any information within it that may reveal as to who his master was, if there really was such a person above him. But his confidence at that there being such was enough for me to begin questioning my entire case against him.

Who was this phantom mastermind?

"You have been quite the nuisance in his plans," said he after he flipped to the appropriate page he desired. "Allow me to reiterate that which has already been said so that you may be better enlightened as to how well manipulated you have been. On the fourth of January you had crossed my path, on the twenty-third you had incommoded me, by the middle of February you had seriously inconvenienced me, and by the end of March you have left me with little room to enact my plans and with the close of April and where we stand now in May, I am left with only my liberty."

"I am well aware of the facts, please do get to the point," I said and folded my arms across my chest while I waited for him to continue and to make sure he did so at a faster pace, I reminded him that I had not come alone. "Watson will not be fooled by your ruse for very long and I do believe you would rather prefer that this confrontation remain solely between ourselves."

"Indeed." He wetted the tip of his thumb and flipped through his notebook until he found the appropriate page once more for his continuation of the conversation. "In January I had made the mistake in trusting a newly initiated lieutenant with a task that even my lower officers could have easily dealt with and perhaps much better than he. This misjudgment of mine then led you to discover a vital piece of evidence that linked at least two crimes to this lieutenant and thus had you upon our scent like a blue-tick bloodhound. Because of my _carelessness_, to put a better word for it, I became incommoded by you through my superior when he expressed his displeasure to me in allowing you to discover our operations so easily. When you continued to disassemble his London branch despite my best efforts to cover my tracks thereafter in an attempt to throw you off the scent; in February he had begun to make plans to see to it that all connections between he and the London branch were severed. Thus as March passed I found myself left hanged to dry and to salvage what I could of my part of his organization. In April, just as my liberty was becoming seriously threatened by you, he gave me one last chance to save myself by being rid of the gentleman who had dismantled his London branch. With you and your evidence destroyed, he could then begin to rebuild in London and I could resume my mantle as the leader."

The last part was said with the hopefulness of a fool, I knew. Here was a man who had been seriously inconvenienced by an outsider, so much so that he had been witness to as well as the cause of the destruction of his little Empire in London that his superior no longer saw him as a useful asset but more of an inconvenient liability. If I did not know any better, the mastermind was manipulating me to dispose of his ailing subordinate as punishment for his failure. If Moriarty were to succeed in killing me, I highly doubted that he would ever return to the same power and luxury that he had had before January.

"You said London was a branch, how far exactly does this organization extend?" I inquired. I was curious to exactly how big this empire was.

"The entire British Empire and some trading countries," he answered honestly, obviously believing that any information he told me would go with me to my grave. The professor closed his notebook and returned it to his coat's inner pocket before continuing. "Possibly even further than that. I know for certain that he has branches in Chicago, Paris, Berlin, Hamburg, and St. Petersberg."

I pursed my lips as I took these new details in. If the professor was telling the truth, the gentleman who controlled him had quite an extensive web of influence across Europe and the British colonies. "So you are merely but one lieutenant of many that he commands, a lord in command of a piece of land within a criminal empire."

"Essentially."

"It is... impressive to say the least," I said. The professor watched me intently as I realized I was pacing back and forth along the precipice of the Reichenbach path, completely engrossed by the story that he was feeding me. I will admit that I found it most intriguing and if there was any inclining of truth about what he was telling me than I have had yet the chance to achieve the pinnacle of my career as a consulting detective like I thought I would have done with the capture or death of the professor. Moriarty was only a slice of a much larger piece of cake, whose size was unimaginable if what the professor had told me was true. This person, this phantom mastermind, has to have a position of power somewhere within the British government. It could be the only theory I could come to that could explain how he could have such an incredible influence aboard. An independent individual would have been noticed by the government long ago. Unless said individual was such a genius that he managed to remain hidden even from them?

Preposterous! No man could be that smart. Not even my brother had that much intelligence! Such an individual would have to be omnipotent and that is just not humanly possible!

I shook my head of the ridiculous thoughts. I was postulating without facts, an egregious habit that I did not like to indulge but my imagination had the tendency to slip toward unsuspectingly. I stopped my pacing and faced the professor once more. I had to know who this person was and once I knew (or didn't) I knew I needed to survive this encounter so that I may put an end to his nefarious enterprise. It was my duty both as a British citizen and as a human being.

"Who?" I simply asked of him and the man laughed in reply. I scowled most annoyingly at him and took a step back when he rose to his feet. "You could grace me with a final request and allow me to die in knowing who it was that brought about my downfall?"

Moriarty simply smiled at me and shook his head. "Even I am not so foolish enough as to reveal who employs me, Mister Holmes. If you survive this encounter, then such knowledge is for me to know and for you to find out. But I will say this, the individual you seek is someone you already know."

Already know? That could be any number of people!

"How very helpful, Professor," I retorted and tensed noticeably as he twisted the top of his cane and unsheathed a hidden sword. I was grateful to have my own cane with me but I would have preferred Watson's own since it had a hidden blade inside the rare African snakewood. I desperately wished my friend was here now with me. If there was any truth in the conversation in which we just had, I needed to survive this confrontation and with Watson at my side, I would have been assured of success. Now, though, I was worried that I would die here and this criminal mastermind that orchestrated this encounter would continue to pursue his sinful occupation unhindered.

"They say that the greatest deceiver is not Satan himself, Mister Holmes, but those whom are closest to you that continue the lie that has deceived you," he said as he approached with his sword and I raised my cane in a feeble attempt at defense, wondering exactly what he was insinuating with that comment. "The truth hurts and that is why you must die here and now."

"I do not quite follow, do please elucidate?" I asked while we squared off for the fight that was to come, like two cocks ready to do battle to the death.

"Besides giving me a chance at redemption, my superior does not wish for you to learn this truth," said he and he closed the distance between us, finally engaging me in a duel for our lives. His blade clashed and chipped away at my cane, the sounds of our battle echoing even louder than the roar of the falls behind us. I knew I was at a disadvantage in this duel and taking the only option I had in the fight, I stepped into his personal space and gripped at his coat lapels and sword arm, thus effectively rendering his weapon useless and turning this duel into a brawl.

"You still have yet to elaborate as to why he wishes me to remain ignorant besides the obvious," I grunted as we struggled at the very edge of the cliff. I could clearly hear the churning water below us and my stomach twisted into a knot of fear at the thought of falling into those dangerous waters. But as quickly as it had come, I forced it to the back of my mind and focused on overpowering my opponent and figuring out who his master is. Whoever he was, the man really had no need to threaten my life since I had been in ignorance of his presence. With the death of Moriarty and the destruction of the professor's criminal ring in London, I would have lived on believing I had reached the end of my career and cleaned England of a most foul presence.

Perhaps this mastermind was unawares that Moriarty was trying to kill me and that the only reason the man was telling me any of this was to get back at him for condemning him to the gallows rather than a redemption like he wanted me to believe? That would indicate that the identity of this phantom was of a personal nature. His next words confirmed that much.

"He would rather see you dead then see your spirit broken, Mister Holmes! The truth as to who he is would cost you that spirit," he laughed most manically when he managed to knock my feet from under me, causing us both to fall to the ground. Almost half of my body was over the edge of the cliff, my dark gray hat falling from me to float away toward the bottom that was so far away from us. Moriarty was on top of me, trying to push me over the edge with his sheer will and strength.

"Who is he!" I demanded and the wild look of murderous intent in his eyes told me enough that he was never going to tell me despite my desperate need to know.

"You'll find out soon enough once you are dead!" he sneered and rose up with both fists filled with a large rock he had grabbed from nearby with the intention of battering my head in. I never gave him the chance. With a simple technique of my legs and feet, I managed to grapple his body and then grabbing his downward thrusting arms with my own hands, I twisted him off of me and away. I would not know what I had done until I heard his cry of surprise and then screams of fear as he overbalanced, then scrambled for purchase on the edge of the cliff we were on before disappearing from sight.

Quickly I rolled over and looked beyond the edge at the churning chasm below. There was nothing remaining of the professor that I could see. The misty cloud that hid a good portion of the base of the falls obscured my view and although I could not see a body, I knew he could not have survived the fall much less prevent himself from drowning later. Professor James Moriarty, leader of the London criminal ring, was finally gone from this world and I, Sherlock Holmes, was left with too many questions and doubts now.

The puzzle Moriarty left with me I would have to figure at a later date, for now I just wanted to lay there on the cliff, catching my breath and strength before I would make the trek back to the village and to my friend, Watson. However, I did not stay there for much longer by any choice of my own. No. Not some minutes after Moriarty had fallen to his death, I soon realized he had not come alone or perhaps he had and this mystery mastermind had sent a minion to see to it that either of us were killed here for I saw a shadow on the cliffs above and knew I was not alone.

Without further hesitation, I picked up my cane and reassembled Moriarty's and after leaving the note I had previously written for Watson in the event of my death with my cigarette case, I quickly made my way to the cliff wall with the intention of scaling it and getting out of sight of whoever it was that had followed Moriarty here. Why was I attempting to deceive my friend when I should be retreating back down the path to meet up with him? I reasoned with myself that I was only doing it because of the looming threat of this unknown man for if Moriarty's compatriot (or tail) returned to him with tales of my survival and conversation with the Professor, the danger to my person would not be over with the death of said man. This phantom mastermind would see me as a threat until either I had unmasked him or he had killed me.

Either way, I could not return to London.

Not until I was certain that this compatriot had not told of what I knew.

Said murderous fiend was quite intent on seeing me smashed upon the rocks or underneath one either way, for as soon as my friend had returned, done his investigation of the area and cried my name in the vain hope I had survived, and then gone to report back to the world of my demise, the man above me began raining large rocks down at me to the point that I could no longer stay where I was hidden upon an upper ledge. As soon as I had returned to the path, I fled from Reichenbach and did not stop until I was some ten miles away.

It would not be until three years later before I could and would return to London, confident in the knowledge that this unknown criminal overlord was unawares that I knew of his presence and the last and only link I had to him had just made a grievous error. My fight against this man had only just begun with the downfall of Moriarty. Upon my return and with the imprisonment of Colonel Moran, I would learn that my real opponent had spent the last three years rebuilding his London branch and had known all along that I was aware of his presence. The fact that he had done nothing to me to ensure I would not dismantle his newest incarnation in London or prevent me from returning at all had only strengthened my theories as to who he was.

Moriarty had been right that it was someone who was close to me.

Such knowledge made me sick to my stomach at the betrayal.

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[1] Shaky Palsy is also known as Parkinson's Disease, which I firmly believe that Moriarty was suffering from at the time of FINAL. This theory is based on Holmes description which fits the symptoms of Parkinson's Disease to the letter.

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_Figured out yet who it is? Move on to the next chapter to see if you were right!  
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	2. Chapter 2

_Congrats to those who had guessed correctly! Originally I wanted this to be just two chapters, but you know how those muses can be sometimes and well, Holmes has decided that I needed to cover the post-Reichenbach before getting to the conclusion of the story which is set many years later. So this story will be at least one more chapter longer than originally planned. Also I added a quotation at the beginning of the last chapter if anyone is interested.  
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_Now here is the answer to the mysterious identity of the _Real_ Napoleon of Crime! Enjoy!_

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**The Phantom Mastermind Mystery**

"_Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster." – Sun Tzu_

**1****st**** April, 1894 – London, England**

It would be nearly thirty years since I had learned that Professor James Moriarty was no more than a pawn in a larger game of cat and mouse (in which I was the mouse), at that fateful confrontation above the roaring and deadly falls of Reichenbach. Since then I had spent half of my life trying to thwart and ruin the man who had deceived me and so many others so remarkably well. The same man whom I felt betrayed by as if he had attempted to take a dagger to my heart himself.

To say that it did not hurt would be to lie to myself, and to see that my attempts to win in this battle of wills and wit against him frustrated me beyond my boundaries. So much so that my friend, Watson, had become increasingly concerned with my well-being and one-time became quite reasonably alarmed when my addiction to the cocaine nearly killed me during one of these black depressions brought on by this long-term case (which resulted in I taking a holiday out to Cornwall and finally ridding myself of that cruel vice)[1].

It was a fruitless attempt on my part and I should have known better than to think that I could outwit such a superior intellect.

To whom am I referring to that has left me drifting on the river of depression and self-loathing at how stupid I have been, you ask? I am speaking of my elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, whom I have on numerous occasions admitted to Watson that he was my superior in intellect and deductive reasoning. The fact that he has led a criminal empire for the better part of my life without my knowledge is a testament to his superiority.

His accomplishment as a criminal emperor[2], an untouchable leader of a vast empire, has left me feeling like I am walking in the shadow of a giant. A feeling, I realize, that I have had for many years long before my eyes had been opened to the truth. It would explain why my brother had opposed my choice of profession, which he had called a 'fancy notion', an obsession that I would grow out of as the realization of reality finally dawned on me and get a proper job within the walls of Whitehall[3]. Eventually he gave up and accepted it, or so I had thought anyway. I realize now that I have been nothing more than a pawn to him, a tool to use to dispose of rivals and incompetent subordinates and unknowingly serve messages of warning to the more ambitious _employees._ If he could not dissuade me from my choice of life, then he would use me to his advantage and thus give new meaning to that age old maxim of "keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

No wonder the criminal world feared my name.

But I am making the mistake of starting a tale in the middle rather than at the beginning, even though I would much prefer to tell all the conclusion of my story rather than suffer through the painful memories of having to pretend that all was well in my family while secretly trying to destroy the only relative I had left.

After the events at Reichenbach had become a week old and I found myself in a small French town near the border of Switzerland and France, I had immediately wired my elder brother of what had occurred at the falls and to help alleviate any misconceptions he might have heard from my friend and colleague, Watson. If I had known it was he who had orchestrated for my murder and abandoned Moriarty, I would have allowed even my brother to believe that I had been killed at Reichenbach. It might have given me the advantage I needed to topple his international empire a lot sooner.

But it was an opportunity lost due to my ignorance on the matter and one that I could have prevented if I had not been so emotionally stubborn to believe in the possibility that someone close to me had been betraying me all along. For three years I would travel across all of Europe, visiting the cities that Moriarty had mentioned and seeing what I could do to dismantle this phantom's influence within them. The deeper I deviled into his criminal world, the more I came to realize how sophistically organized his branches were that I became to suspect that these crime rings were not only funded by, but controlled by the British government or someone in power who had access to such resources.

It would not be until my eventual return to London and the events of _The Empty House_ had transpired that I would finally lift my self-made veil and see clearly what had been so obviously glaring in my face for the last three years since I had learned of this truth. In fact it would be Colonel Moran who would rip away the illusions that I had wrapped around my mind in my attempt to protect both my sanity and heart from the inevitable truth.

"He knows!" I remember Moran saying finally once his tongue had untwisted long enough from his shocked spiel of _You fiend, you clever, clever fiend_. "He knows that you know, Sherlock Holmes." With a gesture of my hand I had stopped Lestrade and the others from escorting the man out of the empty house. I wanted to know what he knew about my phantom mastermind that I've been seeking for the last three years. I had known then at Reichenbach that he had been sent by his higher master and would know whom he was and now I wish that he had not.

"Pray tell how does he know, my dear Colonel?" I had asked of him confidently, but still I dreaded the answer that was to come. "Did you tell him by any chance?"

"No," said he, a sinister sneer of triumph on his mustached face. "You told him."

My face had blanched at his words as he laughed at my clear reaction, turning to a chalky white at a truth I had not ever wanted to hear or acknowledge.

_They say that the greatest deceiver is not Satan himself, Mister Holmes, but those whom are closest to you that continue the lie that has deceived you, _echoed the words of the late-professor who had first told me of his superior. _Those whom are closest to you_.

_Closest to you._

"I say, old fellow, is everything alright?" my friend, my only friend, the only man in the world whom I could indubitably trust with my life and secrets now that the only other person whom I once had such confidence in had betrayed me. Watson caught me by the arm as my own knees gave out from under me as the shock of the revelation overwhelmed me and the pieces of the puzzle all fell neatly in to place before my eyes. I could feel his fingers loosening my collar and saw his concerned face move into my line of sight. "Holmes?"

"Watson," I breathed and I could hear my own normally controlled voice shake from the emotion of betrayal. "I have been such an utter, stupid fool! Why did I not see it sooner? Why did I tell him about himself? Why did I not just keep my survival a secret from everyone?"

"Holmes, you are not making any sense, old chap. Who are you talking about and what did Moran mean by 'he knows'?" Ever the curious and compassionate fellow, my Watson tried to make sense of what was upsetting me so. Should I tell him the truth or should I keep him in the dark for his own sake? Could I even trust him? Who was to say that he was not in league with my dastardly brother, an agent sent to keep an eye on me and watch my every mood and action?

No! My Watson would not do that to me! He would not betray me in such a way. I knew him too well to think that he could hide such an elaborate scheme from me forever. I have always said that he could not lie if his life depended on it. He was too honest, too honorable and chivalrous to carry out such a long term deception in front of me. And yet I thought I had known my brother and everything I had believed about him turned out to be nothing more than a two-faced lie. Who was to say that Watson was not the same?

I needed to know for certain.

I clasped a vice-like grip to the arm that was holding me up steadily against the wall that my back was pressed against while I sat on the floor. "Watson, please... _please_ tell me you are not in his employ! Tell me you are indeed my friend and not some criminal agent sent to spy on me!" I would regret my words upon the sight of the hurt expression on his face, but would come to feel relief when it shifted to a mask of confusion and then open affection for a man whom he thought was having a mental breakdown.

And perhaps I was. The shock of my brother being the _real_ Napoleon of Crime was almost too much to bear alone. I needed someone to confide in, someone I could trust and thoroughly rely on. I _needed_ my Watson.

He grabbed me under my shoulders and hoisted me to my feet. I felt too weak from my shock still to attempt to walk on my own and was grateful when he let me lean on him. "Let's get you back to Baker Street, old chap, and then you can tell me what has you so disturbingly _shaken_."

It had taken us only a few minutes to return to my flat and several more, plus a couple glasses of brandy, before I could tell him the truth about the events of Reichenbach Falls. As I retold the tale, I had grown significantly worried that he might get angry with me and abandon me for my deceit once more. But he stood fast and kept his emotions, for the most part, in check until I had finished with the events that had just transpired moments before across the street.

"I cannot believe it," were his first and astonished words after a period of silence between us. "Are you absolutely certain?"

"Positively," said I, pouring myself another shot of the brandy from the decanter sitting on the tea table before us. "He was the only one whom I confided such information to."

"What if Moran is lying though?" he tried to reason but I knew it was hopeless in trying to deny it.

I shook my head lightly. "Then how does he know that I told him? No, Watson. Mycroft is the master and I have been such a blind fool to believe otherwise."

The crackling fire from the hearth was the only sound in the room for the longest time as we sat there in our armchairs, contemplating over this bit of shocking information. I heard him shift in his chair and caught him out of the corner of my eye staring at me. Slowly I met his gaze. "I am not," said he and I gave him a confused look at his statement and he repeated himself. "I am not one of his agents, Holmes."

I gave him one of my rare small smiles in reply.

At least there was one thing in my life that was consistent.

In the following days and months after that fateful day in Camden House, I would bring Watson up to date as to what I knew about Mycroft's enterprise both here at home and abroad and together we would formulate a battle strategy as to how we could bring him down and to justice. But life afterward was not always easy for me or for us both.

To outward appearances I looked and acted like my regular self and the world would come to believe that I was recently resurrected from the dead and quite eager to get back to work. But in truth, and only Watson would have the privilege of knowing, I was an emotional wreck inside. The truth about my brother had hurt me far more than I had originally believed or led myself to believe. I could now see why Mycroft would have preferred that I had died at Reichenbach rather than have me learn the truth. Moriarty was right that it would break my spirit. If it had not been for my dearest friend, I would have succumbed to my own self-destructive habits long ago nor found the strength to rise up and challenge my brother for so many years to come.

I did not hear from Mycroft after Moran's revelation and it probably was best that I did not. By now he probably had already learned that I now knew the truth about him and has chosen to distance himself from me. Whether it was for the sake of my own soul or for his own liberty, I would not come to know until some years later when we would finally speak to each other again. That meeting would be the first among many of the coldest encounters with him that I would ever have to experience. Afterwards I found myself continuing to accept his cases after all that I have learned, but I only did so under the pretense that I am only doing it so that I could learn more about his empire and connections and not because Her Majesty's government actually needed my help.

Watson would sell his practice and move back in with me and bury himself in whatever tasks I gave him in order to help me combat my brother. He was equally as determined as I to see to it that Mycroft's organization was dismantled and the master himself brought to justice. When he had first told me that he wanted to do more than just secretarial work and watch my back which he had done prior to Reichenbach, I, at first, had protested. He was my anchor in this raging storm and I did not wish harm upon him or lose him to my brother's machinations. But he was quite insistent and eventually I gave in and did my best to school him in the finer arts of detection and deception.

Why I had not done this sooner, I would never know. Watson had proved himself to be quite the capable detective once he set his mind to it. Although I left the more dangerous and deceptive work to myself, my friend was no less incapable of doing the same whenever I needed to be in two places at once. But I did not relish in the fact that I was placing my friend in harms way. I would rather give up a kingdom to see to it that he would not come to harm, but I did not have a kingdom to give nor did I have the means to keep his stubborn soul from doing what he wanted.

He was truly a man of action and someone I could thoroughly rely upon.

Our first order of business in that first year of war against the Napoleon of Crime, was to gather our troops and determine who was caught in Mycroft's web and who wasn't. Watson would come to call me paranoid after he had learned that I had thoroughly interrogated our landlady, the ever insufferable Missus Hudson, to make sure that she was not in the employ of my brother. I had always said that there was something sinister about her comes and goings, but as Watson had proven, my fears were unfounded and our landlady turned out to be nothing more than a most tolerant Nanny[4].

I was quite glad she had not evicted me for my less than polite questioning of her.

When it became apparent that I was starting to jump at shadows and see everyone and everything as an enemy, my friend insisted that I take a long holiday and get away from both the city and my brother. "You are going to do the deed for him and run yourself into an early grave, Holmes," my friend had told me. "Mycroft has known for four years now that you knew about his existence. If he hasn't killed you by now, he probably never will. Relax, old friend."

"I cannot relax, Watson!" I had snapped at him. We had been enjoying the warmth and comfort of our sitting room when this conversation had started. I, myself, had sprung to my feet and began pacing back and forth in front of the fire like some caged tiger eager to be released upon that which was vexing him so. "If I so much as let my guard down just once, he will..."

"He will not," Watson interjected harshly and stood to stop me from my pacing by placing a gentle hand on my arm. "Holmes, there is an old saying that I think can help you and which I believe you've forgotten in your paranoia."

"I am not paranoid!"said I in protest. I looked at him sharply, wondering what exactly it is that I had forgotten though. But I kept my silence after my outburst and waited for him to tell me.

"An ancient general once said; 'Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster,'" said he and I just simply stared at him. I was not ignorant of the wisdom of Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese general who had perfected the art of war. I had used many of his maxims to my advantage throughout my career as a consulting detective. Like a general of an army, I had my own troops and spies, I employed deception and strategy against my enemies and I always made it my business to know my enemies first before I battled them. The fact that Watson was reminding me that I had not only forgotten who my enemy was, I had also forgotten who I was in the process.

I had been spending the last few months trying to attack my brother directly under the belief that he was this omnipotent manipulator who had his web of deception wrapped around every individual and was turning them against me, and in so doing I had made a most grievous error in my war against him. I had fallen for the illusion of what my mind had created on just a lie and that was how my brother was winning this war.

My brother was a criminal, yes, but he was still my brother. That fact did not change no matter what he had been keeping from me.

With that ever so gentle reminder from my friend, I accepted his offer to holiday out in the country and spent the time rediscovering myself and tearing apart the fears and illusions I had created in my vain attempts to cope with the truth about my brother. Throughout that entire week I had slowly peeled away everything I had thought my brother was as a criminal and soon saw what he had always been.

He was still the detached, unsociable creature of habit who despised change from his routine but was no stranger to adjusting whenever necessary. He still went from his flat to the Diogenes Club to Whitehall and back every day and partook in his vices of snuff, brandy and good food. He was still highly respected by his peers in the government and his advice was still sought after by his superiors. He still had no qualms in using people for whatever reasons he needed them for and had a way to appease them so that they never felt like they were being used (a technique he often employed upon myself and Watson many times prior to Reichenbach).

The only change with him is that he had a second occupation that correlated with his _official_ occupation.

As for myself I was still Sherlock Holmes, the world's only and first consulting detective. Despite the fact that I had been used for criminal means by Mycroft, I still attacked a case with the same vigor and tenacity as I do with my own experiments. My methods of analytic reasoning and deduction had not changed with the revelation. I also had not altered my _modus operandi_ when tackling a mystery or boredom. I was still an eccentric, unsociable, unpredictable bohemian with odd habits and partook in vices of cocaine and tobacco.

So why do I still feel like I am lost?

I probably would not ever know the answer to that question, but I had to learn to accept it and use it to my advantage rather than allow it to rule me. I needed to return to my mask of reason and logic and lock away everything else that could not help me in defeating my brother. So on the last evening we had of our holiday, I was back to my normal self both in outward appearance and within myself. I was Sherlock Holmes the cold, calculating machine of logic and reason once more.

And it was time that I tackled the singular problem that was my brother like the detective that I prided myself into being. I had destroyed his London branch once before, I will do it again and in doing so, this time I _will_ find the evidence I needed to see him and his associates on the dock.

"Watson," said I that evening in our cottage flat we were renting for the duration of our stay out in the countryside. He lowered the book he had been reading and looked over at me with his questioning gaze. "We are going to need to come up with a better strategy to combat my brother other than tackling one case at a time like we've been doing."

"How are we going to do that, Holmes?" he asked.

How indeed.

"By any means necessary."

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[1] a tribute to KCS story "Broken and Buried", which I recommend for reading.

[2] a term Arisprite came up with to describe the phantom mastermind

[3] Westron Wynde's Mycroft was quite opposed to Sherlock's chosen profession in the early years, and here I'm giving a tribute to her manifestation of said character. I also recommend reading her stories.

[4] in the new movie, Holmes would call Mrs. Hudson "Nanny" for her nagging, but caring temperament towards his well-being and the well-being of her home. Although it is not in the books, I do like the idea that he might have a pet name for her just to annoy her.

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_Oh dear. You better look out Mycroft, your brother has found himself again and is determined to see you fall! Next chapter _will_ have the final confrontation between the two brothers. Will Mycroft triumph or will it be Sherlock? Tune in next time on "The Phantom Mastermind Mystery!" Muahahaha *cough cough*_


	3. Chapter 3

_I know I said that this would be the last chapter, but it got longer than expected so I'm dividing up the final confrontation into two parts. This is part one of two for the final confrontation between the two brothers! _

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**The Phantom Mastermind Mystery**

"_The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself." – Sun Tzu_

**4****th**** May, 1918 – London, England**

I will say this one good thing about my elder brother. He was a patriot through and through to the end of his days. When one's nation is at war and an enemy threatens to destroy and upset all that which is familiar and comfortable, even the lowliest criminal will rise up and offer his arms to fight for Queen and Country. My brother, Mycroft, was no different than any other Englishman during those last four years of humanity's worse days.

If there ever was one good thing that came out of my brother's depravity, it was that it had proven to be quite beneficial to the British Empire in the Great War to end all wars. His intricate network of criminals across the Continent and overseas had provided both information and a means to hinder our enemies, provided of course it gave him a profit for himself and his _employees_ in the end. Which, unfortunately, it had.

For the last twenty-four years I had been combating him at every turn, trying to thwart his criminal schemes and gather the evidence I needed to topple him and his empire. Fifteen of those years, however, had been spent combating him in secret under the guise of retirement and beekeeping. A retirement that became the result of my brother eventually having grown irritated enough from my interference that he had me roughly summoned one evening in late 1903 when I had been out with Watson for dinner and a walk, to put an end to my crusade against him.

"I was beginning to wonder when it would come to this, dear brother," my voice was laced with sarcasm and a hint of contempt. When were these buffoons going to remove the ridiculous blindfold from my eyes? I already knew where in London we were and so it was not necessary to have me blinded. "And could you please have this ridiculous scarf removed, Mycroft? I know we are in Whitechapel and from the smell of the room and the noise downstairs, I would say it is one of _my_ boltholes that we are using. The one located behind the alley between Mulberry Street and Plumber's Row, if I am not mistaken."

"Apologies, my dear Sherlock," I heard the lazy voice of my elder brother off to my left and cocked my head in that direction. My captor to my right unbound the scarf from around my head at the insistence of my brother and I blinked away the sharp light of the single candle in the small room we were in. The melting wax stick flickered on the tiny and rickety table next to where my brother sat on the makeshift cot, his heavy weight bowing the bed slightly even as he leaned on his black cane stick.

I found it rather odd to see my brother in such a decrepit place where the awfully colored and molded wallpaper was peeling away to reveal rotting wooden slats behind it, rather than within the safe confines of his rooms at the Diogenes Club. But then again this place would have been the perfect setting for more nefarious and sinister purposes of the likes that my brother did not want soiling the Persian rugs of his club. I would be lying if I did not say that I feared what he might do.

"Why am I here?" I really wished that the two hired men holding me would let me go. Having my hands bound behind me and then my arms held up by them was rather uncomfortable and was beginning to grate on my patience.

"Surely you already know the answer to that question, Sherlock," said he and with the gesture of a flipper-size hand, his men released me. I tried to stretch my shoulders as best I could while still bound.

"Then I take it these gentlemen are here to persuade me should I refuse?"

"If it must come to that, though I would rather that it not. You are, after all, still my little brother." How could he still call me that and keep such a calm exterior and false facade of brotherly concern? "However annoying you may have become in the last nine years."

"Well," said I with a small feeling of triumph. I moved away from my two guards to walk about the room, my eyes quickly darting around for anything that might be of use. Normally I would keep my active boltholes well stocked and supplied for my cases or in the eventuality that I would need to hide from my brother. It seems that Mycroft had chosen one of my inactive boltholes for there was very little in the small room save for the bed, table and a writing desk with chair. I walked over to said chair and pulled it out with a foot before sitting down as comfortably as I could before continuing with my taunt. "It seems that I have at least accomplished _something _in this nine year long campaign against you. I am still as annoying as ever to you, dear brother. If not more so now."

He snorted in contempt derision. "Do not flatter yourself, brother. You have only gotten this far because I have allowed you to."

"Allowed me?" I scoffed. My brother may have been the superior in intellectual and deductive reasoning, but I was not so far behind him that I could not disassemble his organization on my own. I had, after all, done it once. Here in London at least anyway. "My dear brother, you must be getting senile in your venerable years. Have you forgotten what I did to your organization twelve years ago?"

Mycroft gave me an eerie smile in return, one of which I had never seen him give me before, even when we had still been _brothers_. "I allowed you to dismantle the crime ring here so that you could dispose of Moriarty for me, which I must thank you for doing at Reichenbach by the way. The fool had grown complacent and careless in his position as well as becoming a liability with that infernal disorder he was diagnosed with some six months before. I need strong lieutenants to keep my underlings in line and the good professor was growing weak. Had I allowed him to remain in power, the wolves underneath him would have overthrown him and set my plans back several months as I made the attempt to regain control of the branch."

"So by setting me on him, your plans were not set back at all? That does not make much sense, Mycroft."

He chuckled a little and gave me the look of a teacher trying to educate a child. "Oh no, my plans were set back most assuredly, but not as far as they would have been had Moriarty been killed by his own men. Besides, your pursuit of the _Napoleon of Crime_ allowed me to clean house as well. There were some individuals within Moriarty's circle that I did not approve of and wanted to be rid of. Your efforts have helped me most tremendously. It is a shame that they were futile in the end."

I bristled slightly at the mocking tone in my brother's voice and he graced me with another one of those lecturing smiles that irritated me so. But as quickly as the emotions had come, I stamped down upon them like a pouncing tiger furious that a meal was proving more troublesome than it was worth. I could not show how much my brother's depravity and uncaring affection was affecting me. Even years after rediscovering myself and regaining control of my emotions, his betrayal still stung me.

It probably forever will.

Quickly I grew wary of this meeting and wanted nothing more to get it over with so I could get back to my work in toppling him from his throne. "A minor setback, brother," I quipped in return and leaned back in my chair lazily, even going so far as to prop my feet up on the edge of the nearby rickety desk. There was no point in letting him see how much this meeting had me unnerved. I would be lying if I said that the thought of my brother actually causing harm to me did not unnerve me.

Through the slit of my half-closed eyes, I watched his two men carefully. If there was any danger from my brother, it would be in the guise of those thugs and not himself. Mycroft was still as lazy as ever and the fact that he had deviated from his daily routine to drag me all the way out to Whitechapel for a _chat_ told me just enough how serious this meeting was. He wanted something or wanted to press a point into me elsewise any discussion we would have here could have been better conversed within the walls of the Diogenes Club.

"Think of it as you will, Sherlock," I heard the cot he was sitting on creak under his weight as he stood up and crossed the short distance between ourselves. His cane knocked my feet from the desk and I gave him a black scowl for it as the heels thumped heavily against the wooden floor under us. "It is a setback that you will not have the chance to repeat after tonight," said he before turning away from me and crossing the room once more. His two men stepped forward and I quickly shot to my feet, ready to defend myself should I need to.

Which was most likely going to be necessary.

"So that's it? You're going to finally finish the task that Moran had been sent to do and failed nine years ago?" I inquired and he gave me an amused smile in return.

"Of course not, dear brother," he chided softly. "No. I came here to persuade you to retire your agency and live in peace somewhere out in the countryside where you can no longer bother me or my business again... ever."

"I will do no such thing!" I retorted while keeping a wary eye on the two bruisers that stood between us, ready to crack knuckles against my flesh. They smiled sinisterly at my refusal to comply to my brother's demands. "I will not be so easily cowed into giving up, Mycroft. You should know that."

"Alas only too well," he sighed heavily but made no move to signal his men to begin their more _persuasive_ techniques on me. "But know this, brother, should you continue to refuse, even after Thomas and Charlie here have tried their persuasion on you, then you will find yourself becoming intimately acquainted with a flea infested cell of the Tower of London. An arrangement, mind you, that I could easily procure for you. How does treason sound to your ears, little brother?"

I had narrowed my eyes at the threat and wondered what exactly he could fabricate that could be taken seriously and as truth. I did not have long to wait for that answer for my brother saw easily enough how I did not like the idea of being accused of treason, be it false or truth.

"Do you remember hearing about the death of Prince Albert in '92 while you were busy sniffing around in Paris?" said he. "Ah, of course you do. Then you will recall that he _officially_ had died from pneumonia the beginning of that year."[1]

"What have you done?" I accused as I realized where this conversation was leading toward. I, indeed, had heard of the Prince's death during that year and that he had apparently succumbed to the influenza pandemic that had been going on for the last couple years, but had thought nothing more of it since my focus at the time was dismantling the Paris branch for the French.

"It is not what _I_ have done, brother, but what _you_ have done." He smiled most cruelly at me before reaching into the pocket of the great coat that adorned his massive body and produced a thin folder of papers. He had Thomas lay it out for me on the desk since my hands were still bound behind my back. I did not want to look at the documents, dreading in finding out what exactly my brother was setting me up for since I had a very good idea.

However, the detective in me had to know and so I found myself leaning over the desk, reading the few documents that Thomas had spread out for me to see. My breath hitched as I read the _unofficial_ report for the cause of death of the Prince and whipped my head around to glare venomously at my brother.

"Poisoned?" declared I.[2]

"Most certainly."

"Why?"

"It seems that the Prince had a notorious habit to gamble on his polo matches, a habit that resulted in him acquiring a significant debt one game which he refused to pay to one of my _clients_," Mycroft answered in a most bored tone.[3] He leaned on his silver-topped cane and watched me carefully for my reaction as I returned my gaze back to the documents.

Poison was the unofficial cause of death. Some of the symptoms were similar to that of pneumonia, possibly even weakened his immune system to the point that he did actually catch pneumonia. Administration was unknown. Willful murder by person or persons unknown. Investigation was still on-going. Possible suspects included polo club members, line of succession heirs, a few Lords of the House of Lords that were involved in the Cleveland Street scandal and finally a couple Whitechapel whores he apparently frequented at around the time of Jack the Ripper[4].

My eyes narrowed at the final document which was a signed confession from a royal servant who apparently had administered the poison to the Prince in his afternoon tea over the course of several days. This document was newer compared to the others according to the date it was signed by the servant and by the royal investigator who took the confession. But the person they named as to who was behind the poisoning drained all color from my face.

My head whipped around at a speed that would have cracked my neck if it had gone any faster. "Do not bring him into this!" I snapped at my brother and if it hadn't been for his two men, I would have probably foregone all sensibility and lunged an attack at him for his audacity and cruelty.

"Ah but I must or how else can I explain how my younger brother orchestrated the murder of a royal family member? Besides yourself, he also has intimate knowledge in the method and the means to see to it that something else covered the deed, such as that insidious seasonal disease we have every year."

I took a deep breath to calm my temper. Losing it would do neither of us any good.

"Besides I also have to see to it that he does not continue your work in your stead," said he with an air of triumph. He knew he had me cornered and all that was left now was for me to accept that fact and bend to his will. There had to be a way out of this though and I glanced back at the documents again and that's when I noted one missing element to this whole affair.

"Motive," said I, turning that triumphant grin of his back at him with my own. "What is my motive, Mycroft?"

"Motive?" said he, his voice dripping with confidence and an air of boredom, as if I were too stupid to even think that he would forget that part of the crime. "Why, my dear brother, you had learned that the Prince was involved in some serious, unsavory business of the likes back in late 1888 that you could not bring forth to the public eye because of what such a scandal would cause to this great empire and the royal family.[5] So rather than expose his depravity and spare our God loving nation of such a horrendous scandal, you chose, instead, to become his judge, jury and executioner. Which you, I may remind you, have been prone to do in the past."

I winced at the knowledge that I had purposely shot myself in the foot with that last line.

"What evidence do you have that implicates me in orchestrating such a deed?"

I watched as my brother produced a final document from his coat and handed to Thomas who in turn allowed me to read it. It was a torn page from a journal and the composition and make of it would suggest that I would, no doubt, find a page of one my own journals missing. However, it was not from my journals at all for I knew I had no entry with such words that implicated my involvement in this scandal. The handwriting looked like my own, a very professional forgery in fact, and even the dictation of wording could be easily mistaken as mine. If I had not known any better, I could say that I had indeed written these words.

Words that would convince any judge and jury that I had indeed planned and carried out regicide with the aide of my good friend, Doctor John Watson, and a royal servant, whom I apparently had blackmailed into doing the deed for us. I provided the instructions, Watson provided the poison and timing, and the servant provided the access to do it.

"Will you concede defeat and retire, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked of me after several moments of silence. If I had not been so shocked at the simplicity of my framing, I could have almost believed in what I had heard in his tone of voice as he spoke to me.

Regret.

Here was my brother, my own flesh and blood, setting me up for treason and he felt regret for me? I suppose he would since it had come down to this. He would have regretted having to dispose of his only remaining and living relative. He had, after all, cared just enough for me to have me murdered just so he could spare me of the pain of learning the inevitable truth about him.

I sighed heavily in defeat, my shoulders sagging with the weight of being outwitted by a superior intellect. My brother seemed relieved that I was actually going to acquiesce to his demand and retire my agency and thus spare him of having to watch his men roughen me up just so I could be convinced. At least that is what I had thought I had seen in his eyes when I told him that I'll retire.

When our meeting was concluded, Mycroft and his men left me laying on the floor with a few new bruises and cuts and finally unbound from the derbies that had been restraining me. I knew Mycroft had not allowed his men to have their way with me for some sadistic twist of his nature, no, even Mycroft could not bring himself to personally harm me. He had only allowed it so as to appease the two brutes who had been hoping that I would refuse my brother's offer and perhaps to remind me that he was in control of this situation and not I.

I had been considering possibilities to extract myself from the web I had found myself entangled in. He must have seen it or knew me well enough that I was thinking it and thus wanted to make sure I knew my place before we parted ways for the last time. I hated him for it though. The Mycroft I had thought I had known was long dead for twelve years now and the man that had so well blackmailed me into retirement and watched distastefully as I had tried unsuccessfully to fend off Thomas and Charlie's attacks, was a person I barely knew and hated with every fiber of my being.

To me, this man had murdered my brother and left me an orphan in a world that was far darker and crueler than I had originally realized.

I do not know how long I had lain there on the silt and blood stained floor of my bolthole or how in God's name Watson had found me some time later before the dawn sun rose through the London sky. All I knew was that I had been defeated in more ways than one by my brother and that my friend's liberty was at stake just as much as my own if I did not give in to Mycroft.

While my friend tended to my superficial injuries and I nursed my pride on the single cot in the room, I explained to him the situation we found ourselves in and what we must do in order to protect ourselves from Mycroft's depravity.

"Surely there is _something_ we could do, Holmes?" said he and I winced at the sting of antiseptic being applied to the few cuts I had suffered.

"No, there is not!" I snapped at him and he recoiled back from my sudden outburst of anger, anger that had been broiling under the surface while I suffered the last few hours on the floor, lost in my thoughts as they went over the meeting several times since it had ended. I realized what I had done to my friend and took another deep breath to regain control of myself. "No," I whispered softly this time, defeat apparent in my tone. "There is nothing we can do except conform, my dear Watson."

"What if... what if we stole the evidence?" The unwavering faith my friend had in me was almost light heartening to the foul, dark mood that was beginning to settle inside my soul once more.

"He'll have made copies."

"Then we steal the copies!" he suggested, unwilling to give up.

"His word is powerful enough to turn the eyes of the Royal Inspectors upon us and with a suggestion here and bit of circumstantial evidence there, not only would we lose our freedom, Watson, but our reputations would be utterly destroyed that he would gain the same results he desired as if I had accepted his ultimatum and retired."

Watson pursed his lips in frustration and at my resignation. I gasped in pain when he tugged at the bandages around my ribs to tightly to convey his displeasure in the situation and disapproval of my acceptance. "I don't give a damn about our reputations, Holmes," he said finally after several moments of silence. "We would be committing treason by giving in and doing nothing..."

"And what would you have me do, Watson?" I interjected coldly. "He will be watching us to make sure that I do not go back against my word!"

My friend glared at me for a moment and then sat back on his heels next to the cot and stared off to the side in contemplation for several long moments. I laid back against the too soft pillow and let go a sigh of exasperation. What could we do against my brother now that he had us checkmated?

"We pretend inferiority, Holmes," said he and my gray eyes drifted to stare at him through the corner of my peripheral vision, "and encourage his arrogance."

"Another of your quotations?" I laughed lightly and then grabbed at my side as the action disturbed my bruised ribs.

He nodded lightly and then stood up to put away his supplies. "He's won this battle, old cock, but not the war, I say."

I sat up carefully to avoid aggravating my injuries and watched him quietly as he cleaned and put away each of his tools and supplies with a methodical care expected of professional surgeons. "What are you suggesting then? That we pretend to retire all the while quietly continue our investigations against him?"

"Why not? Why not appear like we've been cowed to submission and encourage him into believing that he's won?"

I furrowed my brows in thought at what Watson was suggesting. Such a strategy would take a great deal of time to make it work in order to avoid alarming my brother into releasing the false evidence against us. If we did it right, we could use the guise of retirement to quietly gather information about him and his criminal empire and when the time was right, turn the tables against him. But how do we turn the tables against him without him taking us down with him though?

I voiced the question to my friend and he frowned, equally as disturbed as I by the false evidence against us. "Could we investigate Prince Albert's death to clear our name of any possible fabricated evidence?" he asked of me and I shook my head.

"Not without Mycroft hearing about it, no. Besides, from what I could gather of the documents, the British government had covered up his death and I highly doubt they'll want us snooping around and revealing the truth to the public."

"So in other words, no matter how much evidence we gather against him we cannot release it without taking a fall ourselves." Watson sighed in frustration and banged his fist hard against the small table beside the cot, upsetting the burning candle a bit and causing the orange glow of the flame to flicker quite noticeably against our features and the room.

"An opportunity will present itself, Watson, rest assured," I said but there was little to no confidence in my conviction. "All we have to do is wait. Until then, we'll do as you suggested and pretend our inferiority to him."

It would be another fifteen years before we would come across that opportunity...

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[1] Prince Albert Victor 1864-1892, died of pneumonia just shortly after becoming engaged to Mary of Teck in 1891.

[2] Of the many conspiracies surrounding Prince Albert's death, murder by poison was one of them.

[3] Prince Albert did play polo but whether he gambled on his matches or not, I do not know.

[4] Nearly a century later after the "Jack the Ripper" murders, scholars and enthusiasts have tried to pin the crimes on Prince Albert or a royal doctor trying to cover up a scandal on Prince Albert's behalf.

[5] The incident in late 1888 that Mycroft refers to are the "Jack the Ripper" murders, which Sherlock Holmes had independently investigated in numerous pastiches. The Sherlock Holmes pastiche "Murder by Decree" is one of the few that postulates the Stephen Knight theory of Prince Albert's involvement.

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_Oh no! Mycroft has forced his brother into retirement under threat of treason! Score one for Mycroft in this battle of wits! But do not fret, our heroic duo is not giving up just yet! They have a plan and the poetic justice of it will kill ya!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I can finally say that this is the last chapter and I'm saddened it's come to an end. I've enjoyed writing it and hearing from everyone who also have enjoyed it. Many thanks for the reviews thus far and those to come! And now the conclusion. Who is the smarter Holmes? Read on to find out!_

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**The Phantom Mastermind Mystery**

_"Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even when they bring gifts." – Virgil, __Aeneid_

**4****th**** May, 1918 – London, England**

The day of our opportunity to rid ourselves of the blight upon our fair country that is my elder brother has finally arrived. Fifteen painstaking years of covert espionage and investigation against my brother has finally come to full circle. It was no easy journey for myself or for my friend, Watson. Wherever we went, whatever we did we were always being watched by some ruffian or another in the employ of Mycroft. It was easier to find some peace of mind out in the countryside where everything was open and everyone knew everybody, thus it was harder for his spies to watch us without us noticing.

But I do not believe that my brother really employed that part of his empire too much on me out there. The threat of being hung or rotting in the Tower of London for treason was enough, he probably believed, to keep me from going against my word and returning to active duty as a consulting detective in London. Every now and then a problem did come my way in the form of a distraught client needing the help of the infamous Sherlock Holmes. At first I had refused every case that was presented to me for fear that the next visitors I received would be agents from the Royal Guardsmen and domestic intelligence. But as the years passed, I eventually gave in to my own boredom and curiosity and accepted the occasional odd ball case here and there, the ones I believed had nothing to do with my brother.

However I digress. I did not live the last fifteen years wallowing away my life keeping bees like my chronicler has the world believing. Ha! I, taking up the hobby of beekeeping as a primary occupation? How ridiculously absurd! The common man who is ignorant in the husbandry of bee farming might be gullible enough to believe in Watson's fanciful tales of how I may find the hobby fascinating and equally as complicated as my life as a detective, but rest assured that there is absolutely nothing interesting or complex about bee farming.

Though I will admit that when I first started it, I might have been fascinated as I learned everything I could about maintaining a bee hive and its swarm, but once I had gleaned every bit of information I could about it and perfected the art for myself, I grew quickly bored of it. The only reason I keep on doing it is both as a disguise for my brother's spies and as but one step in a scheme that Watson and I had concocted for the purpose of defeating Mycroft once and for all.

While I was busy preparing the first stage of our fifteen year long plan, Watson was busy keeping tabs on the happenings in London for me under the guise of a general practitioner and surgeon in Queen Anne Street, not to mention creating his own network of informants through his patients. Watson once told me how much gossip passes through his waiting rooms as patients await their turn to see him, and although most of it was trivial dribble, on occasion Watson's handpicked assistance would hear something of interest and relay it through him to me.

Of course, my friend's cleverness with his profession did not just stop there in his waiting rooms. Because he had a legitimate reason to be in London and go anywhere he made need without suspicion, he could keep in contact with my Irregulars and make arrangements for me to get in contact with others. He had also worked as a police surgeon during the time of my self-imposed exile back in the early 1890s, and thus had established friendships with several of the constables and Inspectors. Friendships which he had continued long after I had returned to the world stage and called upon frequently in our secret campaign.

Keeping informed of what was happening in London held no difficulty for me, nor was it difficult for me to return there whenever I needed to act on the information. I had plenty of tricks and excuses to get myself out of my cottage unseen or keeping my purpose unknown. And so for fifteen years Mycroft had shot himself in the foot by forcing me into retirement and thus was none the wiser of my activities until the day I finally confronted him for the last time, by then I had enough information to put away a good majority of his organization both in London and abroad.

It was the fourth of May in the year of 1918, just some six months before the close of The Great War that had been ravaging the Continent for the last four years. It was also the twenty-seventh anniversary of when I had first learned about Moriarty's superior above the falls of Reichenbach. In my later years I would find it rather ironic and quite amusing that my final conversation with my brother would happen on the day I had learned about him.

It was also fitting for this case to end on the day it began.

Even if it was twenty-seven years in the making.

On that fateful day I remembered standing across Pall Mall, silently watching my brother's flat in the final week of his reign as the Napoleon of Crime. I was dressed as a beggar with worn and torn clothes, a weather beaten brown frock coat covering a white shirt that had seen cleaner days and dark blue trousers scuffed with crusted mud stains on the shins and knees, holey brown shoes adorned my feet and my face was a mask of black, graying whiskers and an overlarge false nose with a brown cap hiding my head.

No one paid attention to me as I made my daily beat to earn a bit of cash while watching the object that induced my fifteen year long nightmare of being _sent to the Tower_[1], dangling from the hangman's noose, and my reputation shattered by false evidence of treason should I have ever been caught again in his web of deception, theft and murder. It was a fate I did not want to come true and knew that our fifteen year long plan had to work tonight or all was lost for us.

Because once Mycroft realizes what we had done despite our efforts to time it right, he would retaliate against us before we would even have the chance to get out of the country.

I coughed into my dirty and bare hands, cursing the cold that I was picking up after spending a week on the streets in deplorable conditions. I would not be surprised if I picked up the viral strain that was going around throughout the country and Europe. Watson had said in his letter to me from the front that this year's influenza season was going to be deadly due to the poor conditions of the majority of Londoners these days thanks to the air raids and that the Continent was war ravaged. He was only surprised that it had not happened sooner.

I wish it had happened sooner, then we could have returned to a normal life and actually retire in peace for that meant we could have implemented our plan a lot sooner than we had. But one could not control the ways of Nature and could only take what was given to us whenever presented. I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth because I was impatient to get this scheme over with. No. I had waited for this long for the right conditions, I could wait another few months if I had to.

My attention was drawn out from its contemplative, blank staring into nothing when the door to my brother's flat opened and out came the man's landlady for her weekly run to the local market. She would not be back for several hours and knew this was my opportunity to confront my brother on my terms.

I glanced down either end of Pall Mall before casually making my way to my brother's flat. It took me less then a minute to pick the lock of his front door before I found myself inside a cozy two story flat. Quietly I removed my disguise from my face and stuffed it into the pockets of my coat before making my way up the short staircase to where my brother would make his room. I was glad that Mycroft rented this place alone. It would make this confrontation all the easier for me.

My only regret was that Watson could not be here with me like he had wanted to be, but his duties as an army doctor had kept him away these last four years and if things did not go as planned, at least he would have a clear cut alibi to protect him from the backlash. That is until Mycroft sent the false evidence to have him arrested for treason. But hopefully I could warn him before that happened and he could get away and disappear somewhere in the Continent.

I stopped in front of the door to my brother's bedroom and quietly listened to the sounds of the flat. I could hear a grandfather clock slowly ticking away the time and as I waited, it struck on the hour and echoed its chime throughout the flat. There was the sound of a cat somewhere in the house, possibly locked away in the landlady's bedroom while she was out so as to not bother her tenant. I knew Mycroft hated such animals due to their dependability on their masters and that they had absolutely no manners. For a moment, as I stood outside Mycroft's room, I smiled fondly at a memory of Watson's bull pup taking a keen interest in the elder man's leg just moments before the nefarious deed was done.

We never saw the dog again a week after that.

Ha! I was going to have to tell Watson what had really happened to his dog now that I no longer needed to protect my brother for his unforgiving nature towards the beast. It was one more reason why this plan needed to work, just so we could laugh over a cup of tea at how the dog had known and shown its dislike of my elder brother.

When I was certain that we were indeed alone and that my brother was unsuspecting of my presence, I knelt down before the door of his bedroom and pulled out my lockpicks once more. I peered at the keyhole and saw that it was devoid of my brother's key and could barely make out a soft glow on the other side of the door by a single candle lit somewhere in the room. I heard no movement inside to indicate that the heavy frame of my brother was walking about, but when I heard the tell tale sound of a terrible cough being suppressed, I smiled a bit triumphantly.

The plan was working so far.

Now to get inside and confront my tormentor and see to it that I was not counting my chickens before they hatched. I soon found the right pick to use and like the front door, I had the bedroom door unlocked within a minute. The scratching and clicking sounds of my picks against the keyhole and tumblers were nerve wracking to my ears and more than once I winced and paused in my work to listen carefully for any sign that Mycroft had heard me. When he didn't and I had it unlocked, I quickly put away my tools and stood to quietly turn the knob and open the door.

As soon as the door cleared my own lean frame, I heard the familiar sound of a revolver being cocked and I froze at the door, my hand still on the handle. I could have sworn that he had not heard me! It seems my brother was just as silent in keeping his intentions unknown to any intruders upon his doorstep. "Murder would not look very good for you, even if you could say that I was trespassing, my dear Mycroft," said I after the initial shock of being caught entering his rooms had finally worn off seconds later.

"Sherlock," said he but his revolver did not waver from where he lay on his bed, covered in heavy quilts and propped up by several comfortable looking pillows. He was dressed in a white nightgown and his physical appearance were showing the tell tale signs of long term exposure to something quite unhealthy. He had lost an incredible amount of weight and his skin pallor, that if his flesh did not hang from his jowls from the weight loss, one could almost say he was an identical twin to myself with the thinness and pallor he's achieved lately. "I should have known it was you breaking into my rooms. Come for the folder after all these years, brother dear?"

He certainly did not sound good either. His voice was raspy and weak whenever he spoke and I could see a slight tremble in his hand that held the revolver. If Watson had been here with me to confirm it I would go so far as to say that he did not have much longer to live. He could barely keep that heavy piece of deadly steel pointed at me.

I ignored his question for the moment and walked over to his armchair, confident that he would not shoot me in my back as I turned it around and sat down comfortably in it. I stretched out my legs in front of me and steepled my hands before my lips as I smiled most enigmatically back at him. My eyes cast about his rooms and fell upon several objects of interest.

Around him were the comforts of his home and lifestyle as a government official, not a single sign that he was secretly a criminal mastermind could be seen anywhere but that did not mean his correspondence was not here somewhere. Possibly hidden in the safe behind the scenic painting on the left wall and I wondered if the evidence was there too. I would have to check when I left later.

Next to him on a nightstand was a closed book on the latest mathematical theorems and hypotheses. Like his late-lieutenant, Moriarty, he had a natural aptitude for mathematics and statistics and had been the primary reason as to why he was able to get the position he had in Whitehall. His intellectual and deductive powers were an added bonus for the Home Secretary and Prime Minister that later changed his first position into something more powerful and important, a position that allowed him to create the criminal empire that has plagued our great nation for decades. If our government had known what he had done, I probably would not have had the need to defeat him myself.

The deed would have already been done for me.

Also on the nightstand was a small tea serving tray with a white and blue china tea set, a plate of half eaten crumpets and a half empty, small jar of honey. There was a single lit candle next to it all, dripping its white wax down its sides and onto the stand which it stood and illuminating the dim room. The amber coals in the nearby hearth were not bright enough to provide enough illumination in addition to the heat that permeated near my brother.

My smile widened at the sight on the nightstand and a soft chuckle escaped me at the realization about my brother. He did not know! My intellectually superior brother did not know what I had done or why I was here! Oh the joy of knowing this was almost enough to have me leap from my chair and whoop in triumph at the victory I had finally achieved over my brother!

But I clamped down on that premature joy for I knew it was not over with yet until the, and excuse my horribly twisted pun, fat man sang.

Mycroft scowled in confusion at my reaction to his words and rather than keep him guessing as to my purpose here tonight, I finally answered him. "No, dear brother, I am not here yet for that infernal folder of yours. No. I am here for another reason entirely and one that seems to have escaped you."

"And pray tell what exactly has escaped me, Sherlock?" his voice conveyed disbelief in the idea that he did not know something, but I could hear the tell-tale tremor of worry behind it. And worried he should be.

"You are dying, brother," I replied confidently and chuckled at the look he threw at me, a look that conveyed that he knew such an obvious fact and that I was being stupid for voicing it. It reminded me of one of the newer idioms that today's youth spit disrespectfully from their mouths toward anyone who was being very much like myself about some obvious fact or another.[2]

"Your observational skills have not waned after all these years wading in honey and bees I see," Mycroft replied sardonically at me and was forced to suppress a hacking cough to the best of his ability. I saw that it had weakened him a bit more, his revolver hand wavering slightly from my direction.

I merely kept my smile and steepled fingers at my lips as I watched him struggle to regain his composure and return the pistol back to its original position. "I've managed to keep my mind sharpened over the years. This forced retirement certainly had presented me with a very difficult, but interesting conundrum to get around."

"So you've been busy and have risked exposure as a traitor after all? asked he and I nodded in reply.

"I am rather surprised that you have not picked up on it after all these years, brother. Have you grown lax in your arrogance and success?"

He glared at me and I knew he had not known what I had been doing. Fifteen years of painstaking work had gone unnoticed by this criminal mastermind and it made me feel all the more deserved victor in this confrontation.

"I've known," said he.

"Liar."

I stood up from the armchair and started to pace back and forth between it and the bed my brother was laying on. "If you had, I would be in the Tower right now and not here basking in my triumph over you."

"Triumph? What exactly have you done to make you believe that you have won, Sherlock? You do know that as soon as I recover from this damn flu, I am going to have you put in the Tower!"

I whirled on him suddenly on my return trip toward the armchair and grinned quietly malevolent at him. He wasn't the only family member that could commit a crime and get away with it, as he was about to learn. "_If_ you recover, Mycroft. Not when, but _if_."

He narrowed his gray eyes at me and I swear I could have felt him boring into my soul in search of the knowledge that I possessed. "What have you done?" he breathed and then coughed harshly in reply. I waited until the fit was over before I began to explain exactly what I had done.

"Poetic justice, my dear brother," I answered and then walked over to where his nightstand stood. I reached down and picked up the half empty jar of honey and looked it over. "You always were a creature of habit, Mycroft. A fact that has become your undoing, very much like it had become a certain prince's undoing."

It took him a moment to realize what I had been implying and when he did his eyes widened significantly and his mouth hung open in horrified surprise. I saw the finger on the revolver's pistol tighten and slowly, but carefully, I reached over and took the weapon out of his weakened hand with little trouble. I did not want to be shot while I explained to my brother how exactly I was murdering him.

"When you forced me into retirement," I began and turned back toward the armchair with the pistol and sat back down, pointing the weapon nonchalantly at my brother's prone and sickened form on the bed. He had recovered from his initial shock and was glaring most hatefully back at me, a feeling that I could easily reciprocate back at him. He had, after all, ruined my life both in profession and as a brother, and threatened to add my reputation and mortality to it as well. "You had no idea how much of an opportunity you had given me and Watson in overthrowing your criminal empire.

"Although we were forced to work in secret against you, it had provided me with the means to create and implement a plan that would be sure to dispose of the Napoleon of Crime without exposing such a horrendous scandal to myself and the government to the public." I held up the jar of honey in my other hand and looked at it contemplatively as I spoke to my brother. "Did you really believe that I took a serious interest in beekeeping, Mycroft?"

"Your acting skills certainly led me to believe so," he answered and then sighed heavily in resignation. My criminal brother leaned equally as heavy against the pillows and closed his eyes briefly. "I take it you've chosen a poison that is easily masked by the symptoms of something else then?"

"Most assuredly," said I. "Those around you will believe that you have succumbed to an illness when in actuality you perished to your own habitual tastes. Watson always did say that honey in your tea and on your crumpets would be the death of you if you didn't cut back on it." I laughed mirthlessly at the irony of it all. Here was my brother, dying from poisoned honey after years of my best friend warning against it, when it was Watson who came up with the suggestion to poison him. I merely provided the means and credibility to get my dear brother to willingly consume it.

"It must be a unique poison then," said he after a moment of silence and then another wracking fit of coughing that sounded like sandpaper was being taken to his lungs. "I detected nothing wrong with the honey."

"That is because the poison used was naturally made by my bees, dear brother," I explained and set the jar of honey down on the end of the armchair, my hand covering it. "The entire plant _Gelsemium sempervirens_[3] is poisonous when consumed. Not one part of it is safe to eat and the fact that it has a most beautiful and delicate yellow flower for my bees to harvest pollen from had provided me the opportunity to hide a most deadly poison from you. It took me years to grow enough of the plant and the loss of a hive to harvest it into a sweet nectar even you couldn't refuse to eat, but it was worth the trouble in the end."

"That would explain some of the more stranger symptoms I've been having as of late." My brother seemed to be taking this whole matter rather well now that he had recovered from the initial shock of what I had done to him.

"Yes. The poison attacks the central nervous system which can render you paralyzed for life if you survive it or simply cause tremors in your limbs just before death settles in. Some of the other symptoms you suffer are similar to the common cold or influenza and are the most noticeable. The rest can be attributed to the weakness of the body caused by the disease ravaging your body." I lifted up the jar again to emphasize my next words as I spoke them, "There is enough poison in here to slowly kill you in a matter of days, the fact that half of it is already consumed means you are on death's bed, dear brother. I would not be surprised if you only have a few hours left before your heart and lungs finally give out."

"And do you honestly believe that no one will be the wiser, Sherlock?" Mycroft defiantly replied, holding his head up higher in rebellion.

"Yes," said I. My simple answer infuriated him and I chuckled most coldly at his reaction before settling the jar back down on the armrest. "Why do you think I've waited this long to give you the poison? I had ample opportunity to do it in the last ten years when I started giving you a normal jar as a gift under the pretense of a brother wanting to reconcile."

"Beware the Greeks that bring gifts," said he, his scowl toward me as black as ever.

"Indeed. Too bad you did not heed that old saying, Mycroft."

"How did you know I would accept it?"

"Despite all that you had done to me, your feelings toward me were still strong enough to be used against you, Mycroft." Here I realized my voice faltered a bit, a hinge of sadness at what had become of us creeping into my tone. Mycroft still did care enough about me and it is probably why he had created that false evidence against myself and Watson to begin with, to protect me from his empire essentially. It had nearly killed me once and perhaps, in some sick and twisted way, he did not want it to succeed in a second attempt.

"The fact that you went through the trouble to fabricate evidence to blackmail me into submission rather than murder me outright, was evident enough that you still harbored feelings toward your younger sibling. You hoped that by cornering me, that I would exit from the world stage and live peacefully in a blissful retirement. You were wrong."

"So it would seem."

I sighed softly and stood up again to slowly pace across the room, the jar sitting comfortably in the armchair I just vacated and Mycroft's revolver still in my hand, but limply at my side. "But I am keeping you waiting in explaining the _pièce de résistance_ of this plot, my brother dear."

"Please do continue, you were about to tell me why you waited until now to kill me," Mycroft gestured with a weak hand to have me continue with my explanation.

"It is rather simple, really," I told him, pausing at the foot of his bed. "I could not just poison you at any time of the year. There would be no way to explain away the symptoms you would be suffering, in particular those affecting your central nervous system. So I had to wait until there was a time when something else would be happening that could cover your sudden illness."

"The seasonal flu," he deduced with an approving nod.

I nodded.

"Very good, brother. I see the poison hasn't quite addled your brain yet." I chuckled and turned my back on him to return to the armchair, however I did not sit in it quite yet. Instead I leaned against one of the wings and looked back at my elder brother. He certainly did not look very well. In the time I had first arrived and begun talking to him, revealing what I had done, I had noticed a cold sweat had broken out across his skin and soaked his nightgown. It would not be long before he would breathe his last.

"However I could not just choose any season, Mycroft, like you had with His Royal Highness," I continued and smiled when it dawned on him how exactly I planned this. "No. I had to wait until an extraordinary season had cropped up so that not even the authorities would come to question your untimely death. It was Watson's idea to wait for a pandemic to surface and thanks to this war, one such pandemic has been brought to our doorstep most fortuitously.[4]

"As soon as Watson wrote to me last year that the conditions were right for a pandemic, I gave one hive access to the poisonous plant to begin harvesting its deadly nectar into fresh honey for me and waited until the the number of deaths began to rapidly rise across the country and Continent before I would send you a most deadly jar. The rest, you already know, brother."

Mycroft coughed fitfully once more into his handkerchief before lowering it, taking a ragged deep breath and then glaring at me most hatefully, he finally said, "I must commend you on a well played _coup de grâce_, Sherlock. So now what do you intend to do?"

Heavily I sat back down in the armchair and allowed a soft sigh escape my lips. Although this murder would be the highlight of our personal war against each other, I felt less than hallow over the whole matter. My triumph in finally defeating this man would spoiled by the resignation and disappointment that I saw in my elder brother's face. He had resigned himself to the fate I had dealt him but he was equally as disappointed that I had resorted to murder to see to it that this ended.

There will be blood on my hands after this night and perhaps that was the real reason he wanted me to retire. I did not ask and he did not tell me. It was something we both knew I would continue to ask myself for as long as I live.

"I intend to stay here until you die," said I, glancing at the jar of honey in my hand once more. Nearly half of it was consumed in the week that he had it. Every cup of tea he had, he had willingly, but unknowingly, dropped a teaspoon into it. Every crumpet he ate, he spread the poisonous nectar across it so that within a week the poison would have rapidly built up in his system to do serious and fatal damage to him, even reducing his constitution just enough to allow this virulent influenza strain to enter and further weaken him.

Tonight he would die and he knew it.

"My housekeeper will return before I perish, Sherlock," Mycroft replied defiantly. I knew what he was thinking. If he could reveal to her that I was murdering him, he could have the last word in this whole ordeal. His men would learn what had become of him and then reveal the fabricated evidence to the authorities and I would be facing two counts of murder and one count of high treason. I should have known that my brother might not be willing to go quietly into the night with the grace and dignity of a well-respected and honored gentleman.

Thankfully, as the Americans would say, I had an ace up my sleeve still.

"I am well aware of that fact, sir," said I and waved a hand in a flippant gesture as if the matter of his housekeeper did not bother me. "But you will not be telling her a thing nor anyone else that something is amiss."

"And why would I not do that?"

"Because you will want to leave this world as an honored and respected patriot," I told him matter of factually. "Free of scandal and remembered as one of Britain's valuable intelligence directors. Can you image the magnitude of such a scandal would cause to our country if word got out that the British Government was responsible for half a century of crime world-wide?"

"War."

"Yes," said I, pleased that he was understanding what I could do to him and this country if I were so inclined to reveal the mastermind behind the international criminal organization rather than reveal just the lieutenants that he controlled. If he was willing to take me down for treason, so was I and the only difference between us was that he actually committed the crime. "I believe it would even embroil our enemies in this war in to suddenly finding the strength and courage they would need to continue on against us. It would even turn our allies against us. Such information would paint us as the real villains of this war and not the German-Austrian war machine. Is that what you want, brother mine?"

He suddenly laughed, something I had not expected from him. It was only broken with a fit of coughing and even after he had recovered from the interruption, he was still quietly chuckling. Mycroft wiped the mirth from his eyes. "Ah, Sherlock, I knew you would have made a excellent criminal if you set your mind to it. It is a real shame that you had chosen the profession you did. The world could have been ours if I had managed to convince you to join me all those years ago."

"It would have been a dark world I would not have wished to live in then," I replied sardonically. "That is why I chose to fight crime rather than commit it on a daily basis."

"You always were too noble for your own good, brother."

"And you too avaricious, Mycroft."

"So you have cornered me and ended my life," said he after a moment of silence. The only sound heard afterward was the crackling of the fire and his laborious breathing. That last coughing fit must have done some damage to his lungs. I said nothing in reply and simply watched him as he settled back against his pillows as comfortably as he could. There was nothing he could do now that a poison was swiftly ravaging his body alongside the disease that was also ravaging our homeland.

His landlady returned a couple hours later and was only momentarily startled by my presence which I quickly explained by a fabricated telegram having been sent to me by one of his colleagues when Mycroft had not shown up for work three days ago, the same day I observed him having failed to leave his flat since I sent the poisoned honey. She had given her consent and happiness at my arrival, telling me that Mycroft had been unwell for the last week and was all too glad that I had come to see him on what could be his final day on Earth, according to his doctor.

"Sherlock," my brother whispered to me some hours later into the evening after the landlady had checked up on him one last time for the night and given me instructions on what I should do if things turned for the worse for him.

I lifted my gaze from the floor, having spent those hours trying to figure out where my brother might have hidden the original and copies of the false evidence against me. I had come to the conclusion that he would have preferred that their be only two sets of the evidence to reduce the chance that one of his underlings might come across it and reveal it to the authorities just to get at me and spite him. The first copy and most likely the original would be kept in his Whitehall office while the second one would be kept here in his flat.

When he called my name a second time, I climbed out of the armchair and walked over to his side. His weak hand reached out to clasp my wrist and I could feel the slight tremble of the poison vibrating through his body and into mine. His breathing had become shallow and laborious, and he was covered head to toe in sweat from the poison and disease. It would not be long now before he finally succumbed to the deadly honey I had given him.

Mycroft gestured for me to lean forward and warily I did what he asked and in a weakened and croaked voice, he whispered, "_E tu, Brute," _and squeezed my wrist with all the strength he had left before his eyes closed and he did not awaken again. I stared down at him for who knew how long, several emotions washing through me unchecked and quickly.

Here was my brother, the very same man who watched out for me since I had been a young boy and then grown into a young man looking for his place in the world. He had helped me with my career even though he had disapproved of it, even furthered it even though he was using me, and had cared just enough to wish me ignorant in death rather than alive with the hurt and knowledge of the truth. He was a man who had committed horrendous crimes against the people of the British empire, even turned against his own men when they proved to be useless or far too bothersome to keep in his employ any further.

He was the same man who had used the same organization to further Britannia's[5] goals against Her enemies during the war and here he now lay dead before me, murdered at my own hand and with the honor of having the last word in our war against each other. Words that had cut through me to the quick as if I had not known any better.

What had I done?

I pursed my lips in frustration at the feelings my late brother had caused within me and quickly turned away from his cooling corpse to head straight for his desk. I pulled out the drawer I knew he kept the key to his hidden safe and hurried to extract the folder I sought. I found it within the first few seconds and gave it a quick sweep of my gray eyes before tossing the hated papers into the fire.

As I watched the fabricated evidence curl and burn, my mind wandered to my brother and the emptiness I felt within my chest. I did not understand how I could feel this way. I should have been feeling triumphant in my victory over him and yet, I felt as if I had lost in the end. I sorely wished that Watson had been here this night for he could probably make sense of everything that I was presently feeling.

It would be another hour before I left Mycroft's home, making sure that all evidence pointing toward foul play had been removed from the premises. I had even switched the poisoned jar of honey with a normal one that I had brought with me, and went as far as scooping half of the honey into the deadly jar so appearances did not change to the landlady (women were still so perceptive of such things), before leaving my brother behind and the deed I had committed.

Two days later the newspapers would report the passing of my brother in the obituary and a strange story detailing of how vandals protesting the war effort had broken into my brother's Whitehall building and left behind graffiti and chicken feathers throughout at least two offices. Those vandals were never caught and the files stolen from my brother's office safe were never noted to be missing.

My brother was given an honorary funeral in which Watson, whom recently was sent back for illness after over taxing himself in his work, and I attended amongst a dozen other acquaintances, both lawful and criminal, and dignitaries. It had been an excellent service for a _patriot_ and one I found hypocritical if only those paying for the funeral had known what he had done with his position in the government. But I was not about to tell them. There was no point in revealing who my brother really was.

The war against the Napoleon of Crime would finally come to its conclusion some months after the Great War had ended and I was certain that none of his lieutenants were aware of the true cause of death. New Scotland Yard and British Intelligence would receive an anonymous package each detailing the profiles and crimes committed by several figures throughout the British empire. My brother's organization would make headline news for several weeks as arrests were made and the public trials commenced in convicting them, while the more high profile names were convicted in secret for the sake of avoiding scandal, the only sign of their fall were small articles of their resignations in the gossip columns.

As for myself, I returned to the Sussex Downs to finally retire from my profession as a detective and crime fighter, with only Watson for good company. I did finally tell him about the dog and together we had laughed as I knew we would. But the remaining years of my life were unhappy despite the outward appearance of being content with my career and with my bees.

The scar that my brother had left on me would forever burn with the pain of betrayal and murder and I would not come to understand my feelings until the day that I finally parted from this world. I would come to understand that I had failed in becoming my brother's better and that is why I felt that emptiness in my chest for all these years after his passing.

"In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior."[6]

**THE END**

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[1] means imprisoned; also The Tower is the historical name for The Tower of London.

[2] "No shit, Sherlock." is the phrase that Holmes is referring to. I did some research on the phrase and alas I cannot find when this phrase was first spoken.

[3]_Gelsemium sempervirens_ common name is Yellow Jessamine, a very poisonous plant when consumed.

[4] In 1918, nearing the end of the Great War, the Spanish Flu pandemic was just beginning to ravage Europe and the United States and would not come to an end until two years later in 1920. Over 50 to 100 million people world-wide will have contracted and succumbed to the deadly H1N1 virus.

[5] Britannia is the ancient name of Great Britain and a Celtic goddess of war. She and her name were revived during the Victoria Era to represent British liberties, democracy, patriotism and naval superiority.

[6] Francis Bacon, 1561-1626

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_Woohoo! Finally it has come to the end! Again I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed and followed along with me and Holmes. Now I have only but one question to ask of you, who do _you_ believe is the superior Holmes in this twisted tale of betrayal and murder? Mycroft or Sherlock? :D_


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